


Six Towers A'Shining

by spikesgirl58



Series: The Twelve Fics of Christmas [6]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2795423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and Illya chase Thrush agents into Saint Basil's Cathedral at night, but unexpectedly they bump into Ivan the Terrible instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Towers A'Shining

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Open Channel D](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Open+Channel+D).



_“Сtоп!”_   Illya didn’t really think any of the Thrush would pay attention to him, but he acted upon impulse.  It felt odd to be chasing Thrush through the snow-lined streets of Moscow.  He slipped and would have fallen if Napoleon hadn’t caught him.

“I’m sure that will do it, chum,” Napoleon muttered, as he righted his partner.  He paused and leaned against a tree, his hand searching for a new clip of bullets.

“You have something better?”  Illya snapped.  His feet were freezing, even inside his sensible boots and the snow made visibility nearly impossible.  Thankfully, the snow had sent most people scurrying for the warmth of their home and family which meant fewer obstacles. 

“Where do you think they are headed?

“We’re in Red Square.  You tell me.  There are literally hundreds of places… thousands, tens of thousands.”

“Stop while we’re ahead.”  Napoleon scanned the horizon for their quarry.  Dusk made it hard. An odd noise caught Napoleon’s ear.  “What’s that?”

“Sounds like an alarm.”  Illya looked around.  “I think it’s coming from Cathedral of Vasily the Blessed.”

“The who?”

“St. Basil’s.  Come on.”

Illya led the way through to Red Square, gingerly stepping over two unconscious security guards, obvious THRUSH victims.  He hurried up the slick stairs as best he could and pushed his way inside.  Napoleon was tight on his heels.  While his Russian was passable, he wasn’t about to let his partner out of his sight.

Ilya hurried over to a panel, studied it for a minute and then punched keys on the keypad.  After a moment, the ear-splitting alarm silenced.  “That’s better.  It was enough to wake the dead and in this place, that’s not a good thing.”

“How did you –“

Illya held up a finger and whispered, “They need to change their codes more often.” 

“Did I ever tell you how much I appreciate being partnered with a smart Russian?”

“My pleasure.”

They moved quietly through the great hall that connected the chapels.

“Wow, this place is incredible.  Is that real gold inlay?”

“Was the Tsar Russian?  Ivan the Terrible commissioned it in 1555.  It’s said that it is supposed to represent a bonfire reaching to the sky.”  He tried a door leading to one of the smaller chapels.  It was locked. 

“They will probably take the path of least resistance.” 

“Meaning?”

“Why bother with a locked door when there are so many other places to hide?”

“So is the old boy buried here?”

“The old boy?”

“Ivan the Terrible and was he really that awful?”

“He killed his eldest son and made the boy’s wife miscarry.  He was giving to fits of rage and psychotic episodes.  In Russian, the terrible moniker means to inspire fear or terror.  He certainly did that.”

“So is he buried here?”

“No, in the Cathedral of the Archangel.  Why do you ask?” 

“Who’s that?” 

Illya followed the point and swallowed.    There was a robed figure standing at the entrance to the Ivan the Great Bell Tower.  His robes were gold and heavily embodied.  He held a staff and the lighting was just enough to catch his fierce scowl.

 _“Интрудерс(_ Intruders)!”

 _“Неt!”_ Illya fell to his knees and Napoleon followed suit.  “Loyal subjects to you, my Tsar.”

“Who is this guy?” Napoleon whispered.

“No idea, but I’m not arguing with that staff of his.”  Illya answered back.  “It looks like the one he used to beat his son to death.  So for now, he’s Ivan the Great.”

There was a long moment and then the figure swept forward and walked slowly around him.

“Who are you?”

“Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin.”

“Kuryakin… I know that name.”

“My uncle rode in your name in Kazan and many other campaigns.”

“Yes, I remember him.  A man of great heart and spirit.  Rise, Illya Nickovetch.”  Napoleon started to move as well, but the staff struck the ground before him.  “Not you.”

“Forgive me, my Tsar,” Napoleon murmured, contritely.

“It’s all right, Napoleon.”  Illya got to his feet, his head still bowed in respect.

“Napoleon?  An odd name.”  Ivan stood before Illya, then reached out to grip his chin in a cold, vise like grip.  “Yes, you have his eyes.  Why do you disturb me?”

“The true intruders.  We chase those loyal to Vladimir of Staritsa to stop their assassination attempt of our Tsar.”

Ivan roared at the mention of the name.  “Traitors!  Where are they?”

“I don’t know, my…”

“Then turn around, Kuryakin and say good bye to your mortal coil.”

Now Napoleon did stand and, with Illya, positioned themselves in front of Ivan.

“Two of you and two of us.”  The closest THRUSH sneered as he raised his weapon.  “I like those odds.”

“Three, I think,” Napoleon said.

Then suddenly both UNCLE agents were pushed roughly aside.  Napoleon crashed into a standing candelabra and went down.  Illya slammed into a wall and crumpled into a heap.

With a soft moan, Napoleon rolled over and disentangled himself with the wax and iron.  His head snapped to where the THRUSH had been standing and he saw two unmoving lumps.  Reasonably reassured, he staggered up to his feet and went to Illya’s side.

The Russian was coming around and rubbing his head.  “Ouch,” he muttered as Napoleon touched his shoulder.  “Forget about it.  Check out the THRUSH.”

He helped Illya stand and they crept slowly towards the fallen men.  Napoleon knelt by one, Illya, the other.  “This guy’s dead.”

“This one as well.  They look like they’ve been beaten.  As if with a stout staff.”

“Where’s Ivan?”  Napoleon left his man to study the interior.

“Probably back where he came from.”  Illya glanced around, but he and Napoleon were again alone.  “Wherever that was.  I find at times like this it is better not to question, but rather accept the reality.”

“Illya, it’s not Halloween, is it?”  Napoleon returned to one of the two fallen men and started going through his coat.  After a moment, he found and pulled out a small canister.

“Just the opposite.  It’s Christmas Eve.”

“What?  New Year’s was last week.”  Napoleon twisted opened the canister and a tiny roll of microfilm dropped out.  He examined it, nodded and returned it to the protection of its container.

“Russian Orthodox, Napoleon.  It’s January 6th.  Tomorrow is Christmas here.  I can’t wait to give our report to Waverly.”

“At least the film is the real McCoy.  Ivan certainly gave us a Christmas present, but it only makes sense.” 

 “I don’t understand.”  Illya reached into his jacket for his communicator.

“You did say that alarm was enough to raise the dead.”

 

 


End file.
